


poetry that is seen rather than felt

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, gary runs an art gallery and is very open to sharing his opinions, jamie is a painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:39:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: "This is not fucking art," Gary says loudly to his brother. If anyone else has a problem with it, then maybe they shouldn't butt in on other's people's conversations."Really? What is it missing to make it art, do you think?" Some stranger is speaking to him, which annoys him on top of the false pretenses on which he's been lured out of his comfortable flat."Depth, shadow, perspective, emotion, aesthetics," Gary begins furiously.The man's lips curl up a little bit, and he reaches out and puts a sold sticker next to the painting. "James Carragher. I hope you find my other works less repulsive."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flamingosarepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/gifts).



Phil calls and asks Gary if he’d like to go to an art gallery with him. Gary jumps at the chance, half because he knows it’s Phil’s way of making up for all the times he’s been late and cost them a dinner reservation, and half because he’s a sucker for good classical art.

 

They drive to an upscale part of town, letting the valet take their car as they head inside. They’re offered champagne and take it, because free alcohol is not something to turn down. It’s only when he starts looking around the gallery that Gary starts to suspect something.

 

It clicks in a moment and he whirls around, looking for Phil, who’s artfully melted into the crowd and found reinforcements in the form of Scholesy and Giggsy. They’re some of Gary’s best friends, but unfortunately, they probably won’t let him get away with murdering his younger brother in public.

 

He marches over. “Philip. You said we were going to an art gallery.”

 

“This is an art gallery,” Phil says innocently.

 

“Interesting that you say that Philip John Neville, because look at this! It’s not fucking art! If that was art, I could let a dog loose in a room with paint and paper and he could make that for free!”

 

He gestures angrily at a canvas that is hanging at a jaunty angle, abstract irregular shapes covering it. One side is black and white and the other is in brilliant color, and as they merge towards the middle, the canvas had clearly been dampened so the colors mesh. Going from the colors to the greyscale, everything seems to mellow, and going the opposite way, life seems to explode with vivacity.

 

“That is not fucking art!” Gary fumes.

 

A gentleman in a suit is standing nearby and hears his raised voice and turns towards them, joining the conversation as though he’d been invited.

 

“Hm, that’s an interesting perspective, sir. Why would you say that that’s not art? What is it lacking that would make it art?”

 

“Depth, perspective, shadow, emotion, technique, aesthetics—“ Gary could go on and on.

 

Only he can’t. He’s sort of front-loaded this particular argument, and the man is looking at him with a contemplative expression, some unknown emotion deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes.

 

“As to technique, this was painted on a dampened canvas with watercolors, which were then accentuated with acrylics and oils in different locations. The artist played with various textures and media in a single work. As far as emotion goes, if you can’t feel it, you can’t feel it, but most critics have cited it as being emblematic of the emotional journey of childhood to adulthood, or alternatively the journey of creativity in breaking the constrained adult mind out of tedium. Aesthetics again are in the eye of the beholder. If you can’t see them, you can’t see them, but numerous viewers of the work have claimed it to have an ephemeral grace resulting from the watercolor. Depth and perspective are admittedly not demonstrated in the traditional way in this particular work, but some would say that is an artistic choice, and not an inherent flaw.”

 

Gary looks in complete bewilderment at this man in his suit, with his broad shoulders, prominent cheekbones, full lips, and salt and pepper hair. “Sorry, do I know you?” he asks, and the look on Phil’s face means he’s clearly strayed from blunt to rude.

 

“James,” the man says with a slight smile, offering Gary a hand to shake. A man walks up to them then, whispering something to James that pleases him immensely. He walks up to the painting with none of the reverence that the other viewers have shown. Rather it’s something else in his face as he studies the work, his gaze keener and more intimate on the canvas than almost anyone Gary’s ever seen studying a work of art. He reaches forward and presses a sold sticker on the placard describing the work and steps back.

 

He turns back to Gary with a smug smile. “James Carragher, nice to meet you, you pretentious, stuck-up prick. Must be nice to save money on colonoscopies—your head’s so far up your own ass, you can just take a look yourself.”

 

Gary gapes at him and watches as he and his minion walk off, tall and straight-backed, effortlessly charming and polite as they talk to other visitors.

 

“You might not think it’s art, Gaz, but a man can live off of this for a decade,” Phil says, eyes wide as he checks the price on the painting. His cheeks are flushed, and Gary’s suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s embarrassed his younger brother tonight. He rationalizes it to himself, pretends that it’s just punishment for all the times he had been running late for something, but it still isn’t a good feeling.

 

Gary buys dinner that night to try to make up for being a bit of a dick, and Phil’s laughing and speaking to him as usual, so he assumes there are no hard feelings.

 

Life moves on.

 

One day, Phil calls him, the sound of whining in the background. “Can you man the store today? One of the artists is coming by and he’s going to be giving us a work to display, pretty decent commission, and we can’t afford to lose it. Lucy’s sick, I can’t come in, and Jules took yesterday off, so it’s my turn to play nurse.”

 

Gary sighs. “Fine. What’s the guy’s name?”

 

There’s a pause, and Gary assumes that Phil’s just fussing over his sick little girl, but something feels off. “It… might be James Carragher?”

 

“Is that a question or a statement, Philip?”

 

“It is James Carragher, and he’s the hottest abstract artist in London right now, and I worked for weeks to get him to sign with us. If you piss him off, you’re never getting another Christmas present from me again and I will tell Mum how rude you were to him.”

 

Gary’s so annoyed he just hangs up, loath as he is to let his younger brother have the last word.

 

Still, he knows better than to sabotage Phil in this. This is their business, it’s their life. He can pretend to be polite for half an hour, surely.

 

Jamie rocks up in a red luxury sedan, and he pulls out a couple of his paintings, carefully covered to protect them from the elements—they are in London, after all, and it could rain at any given moment.

 

“Gary Neville,” he says, clearly displeased, “what have I done to deserve the services of the lesser Neville? Where’s Phil?”

 

“At home. His daughter’s sick, so he asked me to fill in. Is there anything I can get you?” Gary asks, screaming internally, “water, coffee, tea?”

 

Jamie shakes his head, lips pursed. “No, I’d like to just go over where they’ll be hanging, instructions for lighting, and some price points, and then I’ll be on my way.”

 

They go over it, voices clipped and impersonal.

 

Finally, Jamie unveils his paintings and stands back, looking at them with a critical eye. “Would you consider this art, then, Gary?” he asks, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Gary responds with a shrug, “people are willing to buy it, and if they value it as art, then it’s art.”

 

Jamie’s eyes narrow. “I’ve been classically trained, you know. Just because I chose to pursue my style doesn’t mean I’m incapable of boring portraits and unoriginal landscapes.”

 

“I’m sure you’re more than capable of creating unoriginal landscapes,” Gary says with a polite smile.

 

Jamie just rolls his eyes. “Right, then, 10% commission as usual, and have Phil phone me when he wants to have a show and I’ll come by, wine and dine and flirt as long as he wants me to. And if there are any bids, they come to me first. I don’t part with my pieces to just anybody, you know. I need to meet them, make sure my work goes to people who will appreciate it.”

 

Gary nods, partially because he’s biting his tongue to keep from saying anything rude. He’s dealt with pretentious assholes before—he works in the art business, after all, it’s sort of the nature of the beast—but this Scouser just takes it to another level.

 

He escorts Carragher out and shakes his hand.

 

But the artist turns back to look at him. He’s a striking figure, tall and strong in a navy coat against a grey London sky. “Give Phil my best,” he says quietly, “I hope his little girl feels better soon. And not just because I prefer to work with the best.” He grins at that, a triumphant boyish grin before he ducks into his car and drives off.

 

“Prick,” Gary mutters, though he’s not quite sure he means it.

 

Phil comes back the next day and Gary fills him in on everything that happened, with his own editorial spin on it.

 

“He was such an ass, Phil, why don’t you see it?”

 

“Maybe because he’s perfectly fine to me, Gary.”

 

“Or maybe it’s because you’re hopelessly naïve!”

 

“Gary Alexander Neville, I’m not so naïve as to turn away a client that can keep the lights on by himself just because I don’t think his pictures are pretty!”

 

It’s a good point, and suddenly, Gary feels like the naïve one, a schoolboy jealous of the handsome footballers with their confidence and their girlfriends.

 

Once Jamie brings them a fair few works, they have enough for a full gallery of Carragher exclusives, and they have a gallery showing one night to attract future customers.

 

Gary doesn’t mind a nice little evening party now and again. Everyone’s dressed to the nines, and a room full of elegant wealthy people usually made for some interesting conversation. If by interesting he meant completely out of touch with reality.

 

He liked overhearing the quiet conversations about how to deal with a son’s alcoholism, or the utter drudgery of attending a gala where the mussels were only flown in from Spain, not from the South Pacific.

 

But most of all, he loved overhearing them talk about the art. Hearing supremely confident people talk about something they had no knowledge about was incredibly amusing. He and Phil would collect exchanges throughout the night and try to one up each other over a beer.

 

Before the Carragher gallery exhibit, there’s the preparation. They both sit down with Jamie and talk logistics—the order of the paintings on the walls, the plaques describing them, and the lighting scheme are just the beginning. After that, there’s designing the invitation, creating a color scheme for the party, and deciding on a dress code. They spend two hours carefully combing through the guest list, trying to strike the balance between making the event seem exclusive and not pissing off too many potential customers.

 

They invite lots of Jamie’s contemporaries—“we basically stand around in a circle and blow each other,” Jamie gripes, “not that they’re bad lads, but honestly, if I have to tell Lampard I love his vision one more time, I’ll vomit.” Favored former customers are invited too—Jamie has a couple of special fans, some of whom are titled, and there’s a good chance they’re bring in a solid number of sales on the night. Critics have to be invited too, though Jamie suggests spiking their drinks with laxatives. Gary laughs so hard he chokes on the candy bar he’s been eating and Phil has to thump him on the back a handful of times before he gasps out a breathless curse.

 

“Could you not wait until I had swallowed before you said that, you wanker?!” There’s no heat behind the words, though, and Jamie just grins at him.

 

“I do like a lad that swallows,” Jamie says, a twinkle in his eye.

 

“Fuck off,” Gary mutters, flushing at the imagine that arises in his head of someone with dark hair going down on James. It’s embarrassing, how quickly the image settles in his brain. Jamie would have his hands in the guy’s hair, moaning encouragement and praise, and—

 

I am at _work_ , he reminds himself. James Carragher is a client of his, one of his artists, and nothing more. Hell, he’s not even _Gary’s_ client, strictly speaking. He’s a client of the gallery.

 

Jamie’s already moved on, blithely chattering about how many of his personal friends and family will be coming.

 

The night of the gallery opening is… strange. Part of Gary always shrinks at the event, at the people. They look like they belong on television, not in front of Gary, talking and laughing so close to him that he can’t help but hear their conversations. They make him feel inferior, almost, and he always thinks about his parents at times like these—his father with his rough Mancunian accent and his quiet mother, mostly focusing on grocery shopping, kids, cooking and cleaning and keeping their home together.

 

He tends to overcompensate. He knows that, knows that in his head he thinks he’s better than all of these people, because what he has, he’s worked for. On the outside, he’s perfectly cordial, but on the inside, he resents these people and their stupid worthless concerns about pathetic things that don’t matter. Sometimes he has to stop himself, because then he starts wondering if even the art really matters at all.

 

He loves it. He loves art, and always, always had. Even when it was cheap prints his mother hung up in frames, he’d always liked looking at the beautiful pictures—they’d offered him an escape, a sense of calm in a world that was anything but.

 

As he’d grown older, he’d learned to appreciate brush strokes, and the difference between a cheap print and an original piece, the fluidity of the strokes and the differences in mediums. Watercolors made him feel like he was floating, oils were classically beautiful, and acrylics were a little punk rock, but somehow still emotive.

 

He checks his bow tie in the mirror of his car, and heads in. It’s still early, they still need to do a final check of the set up. He and Phil are the first ones in and they’ll be the last ones out. He’s a little surprised to see Jamie there, though.

 

“Artists don’t usually show up until the prey starts coming in,” he remarks.

 

Jamie shrugs. “I like to make sure things are the way I want them to be.”

 

He looks sharp. He’s wearing a three piece navy suit—a good power play, considering that everyone else will be wearing black and he’ll stand out. Everyone’s eyes will be on him anyway, and the navy isn’t exactly flashy so much as it is confident. He has the look of a man who is supremely confident in his own body, with the suit tailored close to his physique and his hands casually in his pockets.

 

He looks like a man who’s never looked at himself shirtless in the mirror and sucked in his stomach to see what he could look like, Gary thinks enviously.

 

Phil is there too, and seeing him makes Gary relax instantly. He’s all dressed up, but he’s still his little brother, going around frantically yelling at the staff to make sure that everything is up to par and fiddling with his tie, alternately loosening it and tightening it.

 

The first guest arrives, and they all transform in an instant. Suddenly Phil is cool and collected, effortlessly courteous as he escorts them to the gallery and introduces them to James himself. They all trickle in after that, in small groups until the room is bustling and Gary can hardly hear his own thoughts.

 

He floats from group to group, seeing Phil doing the same thing out of the corner of his eye. They chat with old customers and do their best to woo the new ones. Gary even manages to talk up James’ artistic style and technique, though that much bullshitting usually leaves him utterly drained and in need of a drink.

 

Jamie’s there, walking elegantly from one group to the next, almost like Gary and Phil are doing, only without any of the effort. He looks completely at ease, with his agent following behind him like a shadow. What was his name again? Gerrard something, Gary thought, frowning. He’d been there at a few of their meetings, before Jamie had felt comfortable taking them on his own.

 

They smile and laugh together, James and his agent, walking in perfect synchrony and looking at each other as if they’ve got a secret language just between the two of them.

 

Frankly, it’s annoying and Gary doesn’t much like it.

 

Everyone’s swooning over Jamie anyway, looking at him as if they’re just glad to be in his orbit, and Gary wonders how many of them know he likes lads that swallow.

 

He can’t let himself think about that (much more than he already has, anyway), because he’s at work during one of the most important nights they’ve had for months. The commission off just two of these paintings would get Phil one giant leap closer to paying off his house and Gary set for a year’s worth of rent, at least.

 

So he schmoozes and laughs at disgusting jokes and listens to the stupidest art criticism he’s ever heard as earnestly as if Jesus himself is talking instead of some bastard with more money than functioning brain cells.

 

Finally, a few people start to drift towards the exits, and it’s as if everyone else also suddenly remembers that they have children or homes of their own, or mistresses to go off and have affairs with or money to throw down the drain with yet another stupid venture, and soon it’s just the staff and Gary, Phil, and Jamie, sitting down at a table with their ties loosened and going over the night’s sales.

 

They sell four paintings that first night, and holy fuck, it’s a bigger windfall than Gary even dreamed. Jamie’s smug as hell, too, smirking at anyone vaguely human-shaped.

 

“Not too bad for a guy who lacks aesthetic sense, technique, perspective, and whatever the hell else you said to me when we first met.” He looks at Gary and Gary just wants to shut him up.

 

“Guess it’s true, then,” he says coolly, “money really _can’t_ buy taste.”

 

Phil might have intervened, if he wasn’t dead on his feet from the night’s events. So he has the good sense to make himself scarce, and Jamie flushes with anger.

 

“Look,” he growls, “you don’t have to like me, but I don’t have to bring my work here, I can sell just as well at any other gallery in London. I’m here because I like _Phil_. I like the work he does, and I like the way he does it. He actually respects people. Maybe it’s just because your parents love him more, or because everyone else does, but you could learn a thing or two from him.”

 

“Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Yeah? I’ve known you for all of a month, and you’re an absolute prick. And not even in a funny way. You’re just an asshole.”

 

“Bet you’d like me then,” Gary muttered, “but I’ll tell you this much—I don’t fucking _swallow_. And especially not for the likes of you.”

 

Something in Jamie’s face shifts, some imperceptible clenching of his jaw, a flash of something in his eyes, and he shoves Gary back against the wall. “You watch your fucking mouth, Gary Neville.”

 

Gary closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable impact of a fist on his face, and wonders for a split second how much it would cost to dry clean his best suit if he got blood on it. And how bad his nose will look if it gets broken again—it had never really set right after that first time he’d snapped it as a kid.

 

So he’s surprised when he feels Jamie pressing against him instead, feeling the gap between them shrink until finally, it’s gone, and they’re chest to chest.

 

“You wouldn’t even be able to take all of me in that pretty little mouth of yours,” Jamie taunts, and then his lips are on Gary’s.

 

Gary should probably not feel whatever it is that he is feeling, which is mostly a rush of blood southward, and a stern physiological reminder that his latest dry spell has lasted entirely too long.

 

But this is Jamie Carragher, he reminds himself. Jamie Carragher who kisses with soft lips but chases those lips with sharp, biting teeth, pressed into Gary’s lips almost hard enough to draw blood. He tastes of whiskey, which is more confusing than anything because Gary’s pretty sure all they had available was champagne, but still he has that sharp, clean taste to him. Then again, maybe it’s just the taste of him that burns.

 

James pulls away, flushed and unrepentant, and turns away. “I’ll be dealing exclusively with Philip from now on, I’ll send my attorney over to have it written into my contract.” His voice is cool and distant and he does up the button on his blazer and walks out of the gallery.

 

That, of course, leaves Gary with a whole flood of unwanted emotions, not least of which is arousal, as manifested by the boner he certainly should not have. He goes to the bathroom and tucks himself away as best he can, alternately thinking of depressing things like sad puppies and horrific things like how he’d walked in on his granddad having a piss once and he’d been so surprised he’d turned around, and—well, Gary had gotten caught in the crossfire.

 

As always, that well and truly kills any sexual feelings in him and he returns to the gallery, still flushed as he tries to figure out a way to tell Phil about all of this.

 

“Carragher will be working with you from now on.” Blunt may not be best, but it’s what Gary knows, and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna change now.

 

“I already work with Jamie. The only time you’ve worked with him, I’ve been busy on something else or at home taking care of my sick kid—wait, what the hell happened?”

 

“We had a bit of an argument.”

 

“This is my shocked face,” Phil mutters, looking truly unimpressed, “what did you do?”

 

“Who said it was me? What if it was him?!”

 

Phil rolls his eyes. “It’s always you. Honestly, Gary, you act like you have an inferiority complex around him. It’s always you trying to bring him down. He reacts, he never initiates.”

 

Gary flushes, realizing that he had in fact started it. “He said it wasn’t bad for someone who’s as shit as I said he was, and I said money couldn’t buy taste. He got pissed, I think he’s having his attorney write it up in his contract that he’ll only work with you.”

 

Phil rarely gets truly angry, and especially not at his older brother. But his face is slowly turning a pissed-off pink.

 

“You. Fucking. Asshole. I get it, you don’t like him, or his work, he rubs you the wrong way, what-fucking-ever. But this isn’t about you, Gary! Not everything is about you! This isn’t Gary’s Fucking Gallery, it’s got both our names on it. The Neville _Brothers_.

 

“Do you have any fucking _idea_ how hard I worked to bring him in? He straight up _laughed in my face_ and asked me why the fuck he’d work with _anyone_ associated with _you_. I called his agent _fourteen_ times before he even let me through. He’s got every gallery in London trying to blow him just so they can get _half_ the commission you and I got tonight. From one night! This is going to put Jules through school for her advanced degree, it’s going to help pay down our house, it’s going to Lucy’s school fees, it’s going to help take care of Mum—don’t you fucking _get_ it? I have put up with a _lot_ of shit from you, but honestly, this is ridiculous. Childish, pathetic, selfish—you’re my older brother, Gary! You taught me how to ride a bike, and you can’t be nice to a guy for _one night_? Really? I _know_ our parents raised you better than that. Go home. I’ll finish up here. And if you want to keep behaving like that with _my_ clients, you can start your own business, put your own ass on the line and leave mine alone.”

 

Gary kind of wants to crawl into a hole and die. He doesn’t mention that Carragher had kissed him on top of everything else. His mind is full, and fuck if Phil isn’t the one person he wants to talk to about it, but he clearly isn’t in the mood. They need some distance for a few hours. He’d have to do something to make it up to him.

 

He goes home, promptly drinks three beers, and lacks the energy to get off his couch. His back will ache when he wakes up, but he deserves it, he thinks bitterly.

 

He considers what Jamie’s doing with the rest of his night, and unbidden, the image from earlier comes back into his head—someone going down on him, watching him moan in pleasure, more beautiful than anything he’d ever created. The artist becoming the art, all of a sudden.

 

Gary might need a therapist, he decides, before he drifts off to sleep.

 

He wakes up tasting day stale beer in his mouth and a pounding in his head—he didn’t usually drink much, and then the load of champagne he’d had at the show followed up by the three beers at home and waking with the sun in his eyes had pushed his body over the edge.

 

He sits up, groaning and miserable. He can imagine himself getting up and taking a shower and brushing his teeth. He knows that’s what he should do, that’s what part of him wants to do, even. But he just gets up and trudges to his bed, crawling in and going back to sleep.

 

The next time he wakes, the room is dark, though there’s a sliver of light peeking through the gap between his curtains. He grabs at his phone and sees the time. Midafternoon. He’s wasted a day, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels alive again, at least, and this time he does actually get up and brush his teeth and take a quick shower. He cooks himself some eggs, pondering how to make up for last night to Phil.

 

He buys him tickets for a football match, two so his son can go with him, and hopes that and a sincere apology will be enough to make the whole thing blow over.

 

The apology isn’t just empty words, either. For the next few months, he works hard at the gallery, putting in lots of hard graft to sign new artists, coming in early and staying late and even putting up with a few more exhibitions. He stays out of the way when Jamie has an appointment—either he hides in the back office with his paperwork, or he goes out to meet with an artist over lunch or coffee, as long as he isn’t in Carragher’s range of hearing or line of sight.

 

Phil is a good brother, and he forgives Gary almost instantly. He’s no good at holding grudges, and the sight of his little boy smiling at the men in red on the pitch is gratifying enough to let go of Gary’s idiocy.

 

That’s why, when he’s pacing around the office in frustration, Gary’s pretty sure it isn’t him that’s the problem.

 

“What’s wrong, Philip? You’re going to wear a hole in our carpeting.”

 

“It’s Jamie. I don’t know what’s going on with him, he hasn’t produced a painting in months—I haven’t even seen any goddamn sketches!”

 

“Are you sure he’s not selling out to a different gallery? He’s known for being pretty prolific, I don’t think he goes through too many spells of being blocked—“ Gary says tentatively.

 

“You’re just saying that because you hate him,” Phil mutters, falling in his desk chair with a sigh. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw him—I had a meeting with him earlier today, and he sounded devastated. I was the one comforting him, trying to convince him that just because he hasn’t finished a painting in four months doesn’t mean he’s lost it forever.”

 

Gary sympathizes more than he’d expected to. “I don’t hate him,” he says, because there’s no other true thing he can say at this particular moment, and Phil knows him well enough to see through most of his lies.

 

Phil laughs, a little caustic, a little bitter. It’s the sort of laugh that makes Gary miss his baby brother, the one who had toddled around the living room holding his hand, the one who let out shrill shrieking giggles and later on, full-bellied laughter, but never this rotten, bitter stuff, not until he had a mortgage and medical bills for his daughter that he could only just barely afford.

 

“We’ll be okay,” he offers quietly, “we got a huge payout from his last show, and we’ve signed a few new artists since then, this Evan lad, he’s a real up and comer, and Beth Williams is breaking new ground in abstract sculpture. You know it’s not my style, per se, but it’ll tide us over, at least.”

 

Gary puts his hands on his younger brother’s shoulders and leans into them for a moment. “We’ll get by,” he promises, “and if we don’t... I’m a single man living in a flat and you have a wife, two kids, and a house, Phil. We don’t have to split it 50-50. We can split costs that way and do profits 70-30 for you, you need it more than me.”  
  
Phil sighs. “We’re getting by just fine, Gaz, especially when you consider the commission we got from his last show.”  
  
“You put that money away, put it into Jules’ retirement and the savings account for the kids’ school fees.”  
  
“I put it in, I can take out a little, if we need it—“  
  
“No. You’re not touching your wife’s money for this, and I’ll be damned if you take a penny out of my niece and nephew’s school account. I won’t allow it.”  
  
Phil lifts his eyebrows. “Won’t allow it? So you control how I manage my money now?”  
  
“That money isn’t yours, it’s the kids, it’s Julie’s. I’m not letting you do that, it’s not fair to them.”  
  
Phil sighs. “Look, we’re doing okay for now, Gary. If we end up struggling, we can revisit this. thank you for offering, but I’m a grown man now, I don’t need you to look after me anymore.”  
  
Gary shrugs. “You’re my brother. Older, younger, it wouldn’t matter. You’re my brother, and who’s gonna look after you if I don’t?”  
  
Phil finally gives in. “We can talk about it again later, and if I need help, I’ll tell you instead of waiting for you to read my mind. But for right now, I promise we’re doing just fine.”  
  
Gary nods. “Good.”  
  
He’s manning the front desk and relaxing a little before a client meeting at noon when Jamie Carragher rolls into the gallery. Gary checks the schedule frantically, but Jamie’s not on it, and Phil’s out with another artist trying to negotiate a contract.  
  
He rises to his feet as Jamie stands in front of him, clearly frazzled, his hair a mess and eyes bloodshot and desperate.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carragher, my brother is out with another client at the minute and you weren’t scheduled to have an appointment today. Can I help you? If you’d rather deal with Phil, I can check his schedule and make you an appointment?”  
  
Jamie shakes his head. “No,” he says hoarsely, “Not Phil. He’s a friend now, I don’t want him to worry.”  
  
Gary’s still trying to understand what Jamie’s even doing here, but he rises to his feet. “Come to the back office, then, you and I can have a chat, maybe over a coffee?” He looks at Jamie, takes in how he already looks wired and anxious, and amends his offer. “Or tea. I think we even have hot cocoa, if you’d like that better.”  
  
Jamie laughs, a short, bitter burst of sound. “I’m not dehydrated, thanks, I don’t need a drink. Unless you have alcohol in which case I still don’t _need_ it, but I sure as hell want it.”  
  
“We don’t have any alcohol at the moment, I’m afraid,” Gary lies, leading him into the back office. They have a stash of beer and a few bottles of wine and champagne, but Jamie doesn’t need to know that and alcohol is probably the last thing he needs, anyway.  
  
Jamie mutters a curse under his breath.

 

“So, what brings you in today, Mr. Carragher?” he asks. As soon as he says it, he’s reminded of a doctor talking to a patient.

 

“Can you not do that? The Mr. Carragher thing?” Jamie says wearily, “I’m the same damn age as you, I call you Gary and your brother Phil, can you just call me by my first name?”

 

“James, then.”

 

“Jamie. Please.”

 

“Jamie,” Gary agrees. “So what’s wrong?”

 

Jamie chokes on a harsh laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his face in his palms. “What’s wrong? Nothing, I’m just not painting anymore, and I’m pretty sure it’s gone forever, and what if I never paint again, Gary? What then? I go teach art to some spoiled school kids? Or become a critic, tearing other artists’ work to pieces? How can I live that kind of life, how can I live if I’m not painting? It’s the one thing that makes me feel peace—“

 

“Slow down,” Gary says softly. “So you haven’t painted for a little while. Why is that?”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

Gary weighs the risk of his response and deems it acceptable. “I think you do know, Jamie. You’ve been thinking about it for probably weeks now. Why do you think you haven’t been able to paint recently?”

 

Jamie sighs, hands coming up to scrub through his hair in a way that explains why he’d looked like such a mess when he’d walked through the door of the gallery.

 

Gary wonders whether he should repeat the question, but if Jamie’s thinking, he doesn’t want to rush him, either. He pauses for a moment, lets the silence sink in, and takes a breath, opening his mouth to repeat himself.

 

“It’s—there’s a man,” It sounds like someone’s torturing him to get a confession, the way he’s so tight-lipped, the way his voice is edged in pain. “I can’t stop thinking about him. You could call him a critic, I guess. Ever since I heard what he thought of my work, I’ve been struggling to make something new. Every time I try, I blink and suddenly I’ve made the world’s most hideous thing, and I just want to burn it.”

 

“You’ve had critics before, Jamie,” Gary says gently, “they’ve never stopped you from doing your work, they’ve never gotten in the way of you painting until now.”

 

“He’s different. He’s not a professional critic—I know their kind, and I don’t give a fuck what they’ve got to say. He’s a—he’s a good man. Hates me, but he’s a good man. Beautiful, too, that doesn’t help.” His voice is soft when he speaks about this mystery man, tender even as it is pained and miserable.

 

Gary gets up from his chair and kneels on the floor next to Jamie, pressing a hand to his back. “Look at me, Jamie. If this man is a good man, then he can respect you and still disagree with your artistic choices. Him not admiring your work doesn’t mean he hates you personally.”

 

“But you _do_ ,” Jamie says, voice caught in an agonized whisper, and suddenly it all clicks in Gary’s mind, “and god, I can’t stop _thinking_ about you, the way you felt under my hands, your hair, your skin, your _lips_ —every time I try to paint it comes out wrong. I used to—I used to let painting rule my life. Once I didn’t eat for thirty-six hours because I was painting. I used to give myself to my work, entirely, but now part of me is always with you, thinking about you, and I can’t do that like I used to.”

 

He lets out a sound that attempts to pass itself off as a laugh, but sounds more like a wounded, desperate animal. “Pathetic, isn’t it? I know, I’ve told myself that a thousand times. Tried to fuck it out of my system, that didn’t work too well. Tried drinking it out of my system, too, but then I just spent the whole morning throwing up and the whole afternoon in bed with a headache from hell. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do, Gary.”

 

There’s something about the way Jamie says his name. It’s that same pained tenderness from before, but when it’s imbued into his name, it hits Gary like a bolt of lightning, leaves him dazed and flattered and shaken, all at once.

 

Jamie takes his lack of response as a cue to keep talking. “It’s okay,” he offers clumsily, “it’s okay, I’ll be okay. Just need a bit of time to get over it. You don’t make it easy on a guy, Gary, looking like that. I bantered, I flirted, I kissed you, usually at the end of that I get at least _some_ indication of how a guy feels about me. But you… you insulted me, but you laughed at my jokes, too, and you kissed me back. I can’t figure it out.”

 

He takes a deep breath, eyes coming up to look into Gary’s for a split second before they go back to studying his own shoes. “That’s not true, though, is it? I think I’ve always known you didn’t want me back, but I didn’t know for sure, so I guess it was less painful to not be sure. I wanted to hope, I think.”

 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but Gary presses a hand to Jamie’s cheek and reaches up until his lips are pressed against Jamie’s, dry and warm and chapped. The angle is awkward, with Gary kneeling on the ground and Jamie leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, but it works out well enough.

 

He may not be the world’s best kisser, and this certainly isn’t his best performance to date, but he certainly isn’t expecting the miserable groan Jamie lets out.

 

“I _really_ don’t want to be a pity fuck, Gary. Please. I just came to tell you, I don’t want you to feel guilted into sleeping with me. Hell, I was going to offer you a larger cut of the sales from my last show and an out to the contract, let you off the hook.”

 

Gary shakes his head. “Shut the hell up,” he mutters, “I haven’t really stopped thinking about you, either. I was sorry. As soon as I said it, I was sorry, Jamie, I swear I was. I don’t know what it is about you, you make me just want to push your buttons, get a reaction—“

 

Jamie laughs. “I dunno about you, Gary, but when I was younger, I was the sort of lad who pulled a girl’s pigtails if he liked her. Metaphorically, of course, I was never really into girls. I’m guessing you weren’t too different from that?”

 

Gary shrugs. “Liked picking fights as a kid. The bigger the lad, the better. Might’ve been a way to get boys to put their hands on me, since they weren’t interested in kissing me.”

 

“Why, were they blind?” Jamie quips, and it’s a joke and a compliment all rolled into one and Gary leans up for another kiss, partly because he wants to and partly to hide the flush that’s spreading over his cheeks.

 

“You really can’t stop thinking about me?” he asks, because it’s the first time that’s ever happened to him. People have had crushes on him before, but never anything like this.

 

“Don’t take it personally, artists are always melodramatic assholes, and we’re always in love with love, and that doesn’t help when we have a crush. But really, I haven’t stopped thinking about you, Gary, though God knows I’ve tried.”

 

Gary takes Jamie’s hand out from where it’s supporting the weight of his head, and holds it in his own. “Maybe you could stop trying,” he offers tentatively, “and maybe—maybe you could take me home, try to get it out of your system again. Might work better with me there.”

 

Jamie’s eyes are bright and hopeful, even though they’re still bloodshot and exhausted, and he gives Gary’s hand a squeeze.

 

“When?” Jamie asks, “you’re busy now, I’m guessing?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gary agreed. “Unfortunately, I am busy, I’ve got to keep the place open while Phil’s out and then I’ve got a couple of meetings lined up with other clients.”  
  
Jamie smiles, a little guarded. “I hope they don’t all get the offer I just got. Not that I’m accusing you of being easy or anything—“  
  
“They don’t get that kind of offer, no. Only my special favorite gets that.” Gary’s teasing, but the words are still the kindest he’s ever said to Jamie and his eyes light up at the praise.

 

“Can I pick you up after you finish up tonight?” Jamie asks hesitantly.

 

“Sure. And Jamie? We don’t have to do the whole date thing. You don’t need to buy me dinner or whatever.”

 

Jamie’s eyes flash with something, too fast for Gary to catch. “So I come pick you up and we just go back to mine? Try to figure things out?”

 

Gary nods, surprised to find that he can’t wait for the day to end. He doesn’t want to analyze exactly what it is, because deep down, he already knows. He’s excited to see how things go, excited to kiss Jamie again, get under his smooth, smug exterior and see what he looks like when he unravels.

 

\---  


 

They go back to Jamie’s flat. Gary texts Phil that he has a date, and won’t be responding to messages for the rest of the night, which is perhaps a little bit optimistic. Phil’s going to have lots of questions, but they’ll have to wait until tomorrow. This is something Gary needs to figure out for himself before he can tell Phil about it. Besides, he isn’t sure if he should even tell Phil the truth—seeing one of their artists is a risky move.

 

They walk in and the silence between them is awkward.

 

“Do you want a drink?” Jamie asks him, already drifting towards the cabinet to make one for himself.

 

“Yeah, please, whatever you have is fine, I’m not picky.” Gary walks over to the window, looking out at the view—tall apartment blocks across the street, each balcony adorned with flowers or decorations, or horribly vacant.

 

Jamie comes over to join him, holding two glasses of scotch.

 

“Have you ever—“ he asks, before cutting himself off, “are you even attracted to men?”

 

Gary nods. “Yeah, I am. Didn’t realize so much until I became a teenager, but yeah. I like men.”

 

Jamie nods, a moment of relief in his face. “So you’re attracted to men,” he says, “that doesn’t mean you’re attracted to me, Gary.”

 

“I am. You can take my word for it, or not, but I am attracted to you, Jamie. Might’ve been the reason I tried to push you away. I tend to do that, for men I’m attracted to, if I don’t want to be.” As soon as he says it, he knows that last sentence is a mistake.

 

“Why don’t you want to be?” Jamie asks, still looking out the window and taking a careful sip of his drink.

 

Gary shrugs. It’s easier to be honest when those keen eyes aren’t on him, studying him as if trying to dig under the words to something much deeper and more profound. “I don’t much like Scousers, I don’t much like abstract art, I don’t much like people who are smug. Besides, you’re my client. It would be messy, if we started something.”

 

“And now? Won’t it still be messy?”

 

“I’m willing to do it. Isn’t that enough?” Gary asks instead.

 

Jamie looks at him intently, studying his expression for a moment before taking the glasses and setting them aside on a table. He pulls Gary close and kisses him.

 

It’s softer than the last time, gentler. He presses his mouth to Gary’s, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Gary melts into it, how he holds onto Jamie’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Jamie whispers, mouth just below Gary’s ear, the feeling of it sending a shiver down his spine.

 

“I know that. I want to.” This time Gary’s the one who pulls him in, and he kisses him hard, as if he wants to ruin him for anyone else. He doesn’t stop until Jamie pulls away.

 

“Bed. Please. I’ve waited so long.” Jamie is pleading. Famous artist James Carragher is pleading to have sex with Gary, of all the people in the world. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand how that happened.

 

Gary nods and lets Jamie lead him to his bedroom. They walk through the door, and he sees an easel in the corner with a tablecloth underneath it to save the carpet. It’s turned away from the bed, though, and there’s no canvas, no paints, a sad sign of exactly how bad the block has been.

 

There’s no art in the room, just soothing cream colored walls and pale green covers on the bed, with an abstract geometric print done in blue.

 

“I thought you would’ve done your walls up, covered them in paint from floor to ceiling,” he remarks.

 

Jamie shakes his head. “I wanted it to be a blank canvas. Too much color around and I get overstimulated, can’t get inspired to create anything. Hell, the duvet cover was plain tan until my mum gave me this one. I didn’t much like it at first, but you can’t just not use something your mother gives you, and it’s grown on me since then.”

 

Gary ponders that. In all this time he’s known Jamie, he hasn’t even considered him as a person who has a mother. It’s a stupid realization to have, and he feels incredibly stupid for having it now, of all times, mere moments before he’s about to get into bed with this man and have sex with him. But it’s touching, too, and it makes him want to reach out and pull Jamie back in, feel those tender lips on his.

 

“I was so wrong about you,” he says quietly, “god, I’m a fucking idiot.”

 

“What? What did you think about me? That I slept in a hammock while smoking weed or something?” Jamie asks, laughing.

 

Gary shakes his head, unwilling to explain what he means. Instead, he takes a step closer to Jamie and rests his hands on his waist, lingering there for a moment before sliding under his shirt to touch warm bare skin.

 

It’s strange, to feel it and not see it. Jamie seems to enjoy it, though, so Gary keeps going. Jamie’s skin is soft, and there’s a line of soft hair leading down into the waistband of his jeans.

 

Jamie’s flushing a little, watching Gary start to acquaint himself with his body.

 

“I always really liked your shoulders,” Gary confesses, pulling his hands out from under Jamie’s shirt and resting them on top of those very same shoulders, “your arms, really. Biceps—god, I really, really like these, they’re so hot. How do you find time to be super successful and also work out, it’s not fair, Jamie—“

 

Jamie kisses him again, and a moment later, he pulls his shirt off, letting Gary see what his fingers had always touched. There are scars there, but he doesn’t comment on them, fingers reaching out to touch Jamie’s chest instead, touching the soft hair there before reaching down to trace a dusky nipple.

 

He’s a little surprised when Jamie reaches for him, tugging at his shirt too. “Hardly fair that I’m practically naked and you’re all covered up, Gary.”

 

Gary wants to say something clever and witty, but knowing him, it’ll take three hours to come up with the perfect words. So he doesn’t bother saying anything and just starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
Jamie’s eyes are glued to his chest, watching as more skin gets bared, as if nothing could ever make him look away.  
  
“Beautiful,” he says softly, as if he’s talking more to himself than to Gary. He steps in close and pulls his shirt where it’s tucked into his pants and slides it off his shoulders.  
  
Gary enjoys the touch, bit he’s not too keen on taking off his trousers first, so instead, he reaches for Jamie’s and unbuckles his belt. He slides the zipper down, flushing when Jamie can’t help but lean into the touch, trying to create some pressure, done friction to relieve the arousal he must be feeling.  
  
_God, I just hope he isn’t disappointed,_ Gary thinks desperately, as his hands push Jamie’s jeans down and linger at the waistband of his boxers for a moment before Jamie eases them off, making the decision Gary hadn’t quite been confident enough to make.  
  
Jamie’s bottom half if anything but disappointing. Gary can see the evidence of how turned on he is, and he marvels at the fact that it’s his handiwork, how the skin of his dick is flushed, probably aching for attention.  
  
“You too. Please,” Jamie’s just on the cusp of begging, and god, Gary really, eeally lines it. Some parts of him more than others, with his own penis painfully hard and begging to be touched. He strips himself quickly and clinically, stepping in close to wrap a hand around Jamie’s cock.  
  
Jamie lets out a sound that is equal parts filthy and delicious, and Gary’s letting himself be guided towards the bed. Suddenly, the awkwardness is gone. He’s already touched Jamie’s penis—and that _sound_ will stay with him until the day he dies—and he knows Jamie finds him hot. It’s shifting into familiar territory.   
  
Gary just lets himself fall into his one night stand routine, though perhaps that’s a generous term considering he’s only had a handful of those these last few years.

 

Jamie’s kissing him all over, starting at his mouth and shifting down, covering his chest, and then his abdomen. “You really are beautiful, Gary,” he murmurs again, lips shifting down to right where Gary wants them.

 

It’s a rather inconvenient time for Gary to remember how bad he is at casual sex, all things considered, so when the thought arises, he shoves it to the back of his mind and focuses on Jamie’s warm, wet mouth swallowing him down.

 

The world stops around him. There’s nothing but this, nothing but the darkness of closed eyelids and the sensation, such an overwhelming one, of being wanted.

 

He doesn’t last long, he knew he wouldn’t be able to when he first felt those lips descending down his shaft. He lets out a soft sound of warning, tugs at Jamie’s hair, the soft silky strands caught tight in his grip, but Jamie doesn’t pull away and just swallows, almost as if he enjoys it.

 

He pulls off when Gary lets out a soft whine of discomfort, the feeling too much when he’s painfully sensitive after his orgasm.

 

“Might not be able to get it up again for a bit,” Gary admits, a little ashamed, “I need some time to recover, I’m not sixteen anymore.”

 

“And thank fuck for that, or I’d be going to prison,” Jamie jokes, lips pressed against Gary’s neck, and then his lips. There’s a hint of salt to the kiss, a hint of bitterness, and Gary flushes when he realizes he’s tasting himself in Jamie’s mouth.

 

Jamie settles down next to him, looking comfortable as if he’s ready to go to sleep.

 

“But you haven’t—“ Gary protests.

 

“Then help me to,” Jamie says lightly, taking Gary’s hand and guiding it to where he wants to be touched.

 

He strokes him, not applying much pressure at first, feeling the rough drag of his hand against Jamie’s dick, the silky skin covering the hard muscle. “Do you have something—lube? To make it easier, less painful for you?”

 

Jamie nods, reaching over to his bedside table and handing it to Gary. Gary applies a little bit, and Jamie gasps.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot, it’s cold, isn’t it? Sorry, J.”

 

Jamie shakes his head, “it’s fine. Only a bit surprised for a second, and now it’s—now it’s good. More, please. Harder.”

 

Gary obliges him, leaning over him and kissing him as he does, and Jamie doesn’t last long either—going down on Gary must have gotten him pretty close to the edge.

 

“Do you want me to call a taxi?” Gary asks, “go home?”

 

Jamie shakes his head, and it’s a good thing, too, because Gary’s already half asleep, his face pressed against Jamie’s broad, strong shoulder.

 

“G’night, Gary.”

 

Gary doesn’t respond, already too far gone, sinking into dreams about kissing an artist under the stars, about paint-stained jeans falling to the floor as he bares the skin beneath them, about making eggs while Jamie paints, reminding him to eat now and then so he doesn’t get too caught up in his work.

 

\---  
  
It’s quiet when he wakes, and he’s alone in bed. He listens for the rushing water of a shower, or footsteps in the hallway, and can’t hear either. He’s not quite awake enough to get up and find Jamie himself, so he just lays back down, eyes drifting again.

 

“Beautiful,” he remembers Jamie saying, as clearly as if he was saying it now. Jamie thinks he’s beautiful, he remembers, heart squeezing with pleasure at the thought of it.

 

He lets out a satisfied exhale and tries not to be disappointed that Jamie’s not next to him, ready for round two.

 

He lets himself drift again, almost asleep when he hears some quiet humming. He turns over, ignoring the small, unhappy noise Jamie lets out, and looks for him.

 

He’s in the corner, at his easel.

 

He’s painting.

 

“Not blocked anymore?” he asks playfully, getting up to see what it is that Jamie’s painting.

 

Jamie shakes his head with a smile. “Guess not. Good morning, Gary.”

 

Gary looks at the canvas and flushes. It’s still in its early stages, mostly line drawing. The only thing that’s filled in is the image of the man, lying face down in bed, fast asleep with the sheets drawn down to his hips. He has dark hair, and he sleeps like Gary, Jamie’s subject does, but he—he’s so beautiful, and Gary is—

 

Oh. Gary is beautiful, too, in Jamie’s eyes.

 

He flushes, wrapping his arms around Jamie’s waist and leaning against him. “I am _not_ selling that in my gallery,” he says, lips tracing a path of kisses from Jamie’s shoulders to his ear.

 

“No, you’re right. This one is just for me,” Jamie agrees, turning to catch Gary’s mouth in a good morning kiss.

 

“This isn’t your usual style,” Gary says, the words carrying a question.

 

“Told you I was classically trained, Gaz. Figured it might be a good idea to go back to that, to try to find my style again the same way I found it the first time.”

 

“I’m not that hot, you know.” Gary’s looking at the figure in the painting, at the subtle lines and shading that shows off his muscles.

 

“Yeah? How often do you look at your own back muscles? You’re pretty fucking hot, Gaz, and I’m a world-class artist, so I think we can agree that I’m right about this. My whole job is appreciating beauty, remember?”

 

Gary huffs out a laugh, to show exactly what he thinks about that. “Do you want me to lay back down, or are you good with me hopping into the shower, baby?”

 

Jamie shoots him a look at the endearment, and flushes just a little. “You go, I can’t have you in bed all day for my own selfish reasons.”

 

“Not until the weekend, anyway,” Gary sings, heading off into the bathroom to get cleaned up.

 

Jamie’s still standing there when he gets out, still shamelessly naked, still painting. He has a little smudge of brown on his forehead, where he must’ve rubbed absently while he was doing Gary’s hair.

 

“I can make breakfast and bring it in here, if you want,” Gary offers, “but as long as you’re with me, you’re not going to do any more thirty-six hour stints of not eating. Just because you’re an artist doesn’t mean you have to be a starving artist, mate.”

 

“Just a coffee and a toast is fine, love.”

 

They both ignore the endearment, as they both ignored the way Gary had called him baby earlier. They both ignore how easy it is to settle into domesticity after just one night of sleeping together. They both ignore a lot of things, truth be told.

 

That would be why, when Gary’s phone rings over breakfast, he picks it up and blanches.

 

“Shit—I’m late for work—I’ve been trying so hard lately, and he’s just going to think I’m a deadbeat again—fuck, where are my clothes, Carragher? Phil is going to eat me for breakfast—”

 

“You tell him that’s _my_ job,” Jamie says playfully, handing him his trousers once he gets his boxers on.

 

Gary flushes and leans in for a chaste kiss as he buttons his shirt. “Call me, James, if you’d like to see me again.”

 

And then he’s gone, and Jamie Carragher is naked in his flat, watching him go.

 

His phone rings when Gary’s on the Tube, going back to the gallery in the same clothes he wore the day before.

 

“Hello?”

 

“I want to see you again.”

 

Gary smiles at the phone, enough that a businessman opposite him looks at him in disapproval.

 

“I’d like that.”

  
Jamie’s flat isn’t huge. He could probably afford a lot more space than he has, a two bedroom with one of those bedrooms turned into a studio, with lots of natural light.

 

Time flies when you’re dating a client, really. Phil doesn’t quite approve of the relationship, but he does approve of the fact that Gary’s happy and Jamie is both happy and painting again, finally. It helps that he speaks to each of them individually and extracts heartfelt promise that the relationship breaking down won’t affect their working together.  
  
And bizarrely enough, it _is_ a relationship. Gary has gone into it the first time thinking that if they had sex, Jamie might get over it. That hadn’t exactly worked out according to plan. Jamie only wanted to see him more each time they parted. Gary did too, though he hadn’t quite wanted to admit it to himself at first. 

 

But there’s no reason for him to say no. There’s no reason for him to even feel like saying no. Jamie’s romantic and sweet and hot and _incredibly_ good in bed and he has a perfect body and also he is pretty rich, which isn’t one of the reasons Gary is with him, but Gary does like to use it when he’s teasing.

 

It’s not that it’s all sex all the time, either. They eat dinner, they watch films, they struggle through cooking together and laugh as they scrape burnt pans and order takeout. It’s breakfast in bed, or sometimes just coffee in bed, it’s ice cream after long days. It’s Gary looking at Jamie’s work long and hard, and asking thoughtful questions about it, trying to understand it better.

 

It’s the way Jamie’s eyes look when he’s talking about art, and how it takes Gary’s breath away that that’s the same way they look when he’s talking about Gary to someone else. It’s the thump-th-thump of his heart skipping a beat, wondering if this is too fast, too soon, and realizing he doesn’t know and doesn’t care if it is, not if it means getting to keep the memory of those eyes looking at him tenderly, like a beautiful, precious thing.   
  
For Christmas, Jamie gives him a canvas. It’s a portrait. It’s him, his side profile, looking into a mirror. He can’t quite tell which one is the mirror and which one is the real him, actually. But one of them looks a little older, a little more tired, a little sadder, and the other one is handsomer, with brighter eyes and a hint of a smile about his lips, the lines around his mouth still present but not as deep.

 

On the inside of the frame, he’s written a few words, carefully legible.

 

_Let me be your mirror. –JC_

 

The painting is intense, in how focused it is on him. The background is there, is done in stunning realist style that Gary hasn’t even seen in any of Jamie’s works before, but it’s clear that that’s not where the focus of the painting is.

 

“Do you usually write messages on the backs of your work?” Gary asks dryly, mind too slow to think of anything else to say.

 

Jamie grins at him, lifting one shoulder up in a shrug designed to look artless. It’s okay, the nonverbal response, because it gives Gary more time to stare at the painting.

 

It’s early days yet, certainly, but Gary suspects he may one day make the extremely unwise decision to fall in love with an abstract painter, and a Scouser no less. He keeps this thought to himself, though heaven knows he flushes every time Phil or one of his friends brings it up.  
  
“Told you I could do unoriginal landscapes and boring portraits as well as the next guy. Do you like it?”  
  
Gary does, really and truly. “I love it. But it’s not the real you,” he says softly.  
  
Jamie doesn’t say a word, and the next day, the portrait is gone, and in its place is a silhouette he knows to be his own, filled with beautiful, bright designs against a background of soft gray. There are gentle, subtle swirls in the gray paint. The silhouette has flashes of paint like fireworks, blue waves like the ocean is caught up inside the man, brilliant yellow dots as if a pointillist had started a work and been abruptly dragged away in the middle. Jamie’s signed it with just a J, in the bottom right corner. On the underside of the wooden frame, he’s written a single word, a dedication, or perhaps a title for the work. _Yours_.

 

“There’s no way you painted this in one day,” Gary says, a little bit stunned.

 

Jamie flushes. “I didn’t. I already had it done. I was going to keep it for myself. I made the portrait for you and this for me, thought you’d like the more traditional style and I—I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to part with this one. Figured it wouldn’t hurt anybody if I kept just one for myself.”

 

Gary wonders, then, wonders if it aches to be parted from your work, wonders if every sale is bittersweet, or if he asks if he can visit his works now and again, or if he takes photographs beforehand, or paints duplicates so he can always keep something of it for himself.

 

He wonders what it’s like, to carve open your chest and pour out your soul and then trade it for soft paper with an old woman’s face stamped on it.

 

“Not too bad for lacking artistic vision, perspective, emotional resonance, and all that crap, yeah?” Jamie jokes.

 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Gary says, voice low and eyes still fixed on the canvas, “that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about, and he’s the best fucking artist in the history of the world.”

 


	2. very brief epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically, I think the story could have ended where it did, but I had this idea for a scene that wouldn't leave me, so here it is.

“Gallery tomorrow night for one of my lesser-known clients,” Phil tells him one day, “if you and J could come, it might attract more attention, more eyes on his work. Ask him if he’s available and wants to come. I’ll stock our personal fridge with his favorite brand of scotch, even.”

 

Gary grins, and shoots off a text to his boyfriend.

 

Who is probably busy painting and responds several hours later with a sheepish emoji, an apology, and a yes to the invite.

 

He gets dressed in his fancy getup and waits for his ride.

 

The doorbell rings exactly on time, and Jamie’s wearing a deep burgundy suit with a narrow black tie. Gary swallows and wonders if it’s anatomically possible for his eyes to fall out of his head if he just stands here and refuses to blink for the rest of eternity.

 

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Jamie says playfully, “you look hot, Gaz.”

 

Gary looks down at himself, in his tailored suit that he wears to nearly every gallery show, and then looks over at Jamie again, at the way the rich fabric fits perfectly to his partner’s physique. It’s just short of indecent, and if Gary wasn’t in the most expensive clothes he owned, he’d be on his knees, showing Jamie exactly who the handsome one is out of the two of them.

 

“How do you manage to break the dress code, never get in trouble for it, and _still_ look fucking gorgeous?” he complains, tucking one hand into the crook of Jamie’s elbow as they walk down to the car.

 

“It’s a gift!”

 

As soon as they walk through the doors, Gary knows whose show it is. He hasn’t seen any of these works, but the lines, the colors, the mosaic of techniques, the striking silhouettes and the precision of the shapes—he knows the hands that labored over these canvases, knows the blunt fingernails that ended the days with pigment crusted under them. Hell, he’s got the paint-splattered jeans in his closet, from where the dish soap had taken care of the oils, but the acrylics were a lost cause.

 

“So,” Jamie says beside him, as they stop in front of a canvas. “What do you think?”

 

“That’s not art,” Gary says playfully.

 

“Oh? I’m curious. What do you think it’s lacking that would make it art?”

 

“Oh, depth, perspective, emotion, tech—“ Gary gets cut off by the press of lips against his, and he can’t quite stop himself from smiling into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> a little homage to that burgundy suit that Carra looked super good in. 
> 
> Title is from a quote by Leonardo de Vinci: “Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” 
> 
> many thanks to Avi for having this idea, sharing her headcanons for it, reading over innumerable drafts, and cheering me on every step of the way. I hope it's lived up to your hopes!


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